


Come Back To Leave Me

by Jenwryn



Category: Death Note
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-13
Updated: 2009-04-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 07:42:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>L wonders how long he plans on staying this time, but he doesn't ask.</p><p>AU: the Kira case never happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Back To Leave Me

**Author's Note:**

> So, somebody thought it might be nice to sort through the paperwork in the top drawer of her desk and... she found this. To be honest, I have no idea when I wrote the first draft, although it was probably after Christmas, given the whole "returning home" _leit motiv_ that likewise runs through the other L/Mello stories I wrote at that time.
> 
> BTW, Mello here is nineteen, and is no longer a student at Wammy's.

The man is sitting, and has propped his chin upon his hands, when the teenager turns a little and gazes up at him, his sleepy eyes half hidden by the softness of the pillow. Again, again, and this is how it always goes - the crash of a door flung open, the rushed heat of hands on skin, and then the wild tangle of moans and needs, before they re-find themselves, some time later; their breathing settled, their limbs rearranged into disparate bodies, and Mello dozes until somewhere, down the halls, a distant grandfather clock chimes out the hour (is it early, or is it late? jet lag has left him none the wiser). The memory of what was, and what has been, sleeks its way across Mello's face as he surfaces from sleep and shifts warmly against white cotton. His yawn is a kitten's mewl, and he turns a little more, so that his blond hair spills across his companion's bare feet; he reaches out a finger, and thumbs a quiet circle around a bony ankle.

L exhales, and watches Mello. He lays back down, relinquishing the seated position he had drawn himself into, and curls up against the younger man. There is a trailing mess of clothes on the floor, and a large backpack, tossed carelessly down near the closed door, with a carry-on-luggage label barely visible, half hidden, beneath a hurriedly removed leather boot. L wonders just how long Mello plans on staying this time, but he doesn't ask, simply runs his hands over Mello's skin, pushing the sheets slightly down again, and making the blond shiver and stretch and close his eyes with a hush of pale lashes. The nineteen-year-old is too thin, beneath his touch, but L doesn't mention that either, just leans in, and mouths his lips at the pale neck, bared for him alone, as the boy mumbles his name, and loses his hands amongst L's hair.

Mello always leaves. Mello always comes back.

Mello always ends up in L's bed, like this, like now, like here, his body trembling at L's every touch. Sometimes, L thinks, it is as though the boy were purring. He's so receptive, so attuned to touch and scent and taste, in a way that even L, with his own fixations, has never claimed to be. And Mello always knows where in the world L is; he never asks for permission, never announces his arrival, he simply turns up, storming back into L's life, and no case, no case is too big, or too important, for it not to be put on hold the moment Mello's mouth meets his. L doesn't question it. He just listens, as Mello mutters something against his bare chest; he just feels, as Mello's legs spread, beneath the sheets, beneath L's body. L is aware that his eyes are already saying too much, as he pushes the sheets down further, scrunches them down with his toes, flips the blond man over, and makes him _his_ again.

Except that L knows better. L knows who is the property here.

Because Mello is the one who will leave.

And come back.

And leave again.


End file.
